


Set Fire To The Rain

by Siyah_Kedi



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:37:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siyah_Kedi/pseuds/Siyah_Kedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life isn’t fair, and tempus fugit – Time Flies.  Arthur’s always hated these platitudes, but after he makes the biggest mistake of his life, he learns that they’re both all too true.  </p>
<p>First time posting to AO3.  Forgive errors please, while I figure this out. 83</p>
            </blockquote>





	Set Fire To The Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Angst, character death, a little bit of fluff if you squint. Choppy timeline, nonlinear storytelling, tense-changes.

_But I set fire to the rain  
Watched it pour as I touched your face  
Well it burned when I cried cause  
I heard it screaming out your name  
 **Adele – Set Fire To The Rain**_

-o0o-

Lying on the cold pavement, rain pouring down around him and mingling with his blood, Arthur thinks that he always knew it would end in blood and water. From the first moment he slid that cannula under his skin and opened his eyes in a dream, he’d just _known_ that he would not be one of those people who died peacefully in his sleep. Frankly, he’s surprised he made it past thirty, especially after what happened to Mal and Cobb, and going on the run with governments and corporations alike after their blood.

It’s a sick sort of joke that left him here, dying alone in an abandoned alley. A victim at the last.

0

“We need a forger – why?” 

“Merde, Arthur, don’t be such a stick in the mud.” Mal laughed, dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Her boyfriend Cobb – an architect of surpassing skill, but still an annoyance as far as Arthur was concerned – shrugged his shoulders. 

“Mal says it’ll make the job easier. I’ve never worked with him, but he’s a fairly big name in the business. At least, everyone I’ve ever talked to has recommended him.” Dom shrugged again, unwilling to fight with Mal over the issue of an extra team-member. 

Arthur had no such compunctions, and glowered at the pretty French woman. “We’re doing just fine the way we are.” 

“Oh, darling,” came the lilting British voice. “You wound me. At least let me show you what I can do.” 

Arthur whirled around, glaring at the additional man. He was dark haired, light-eyed, broad and grinning like a Cheshire cat. Moving stiffly, feeling betrayed - _how dare you invite him in here like this!_ \- Arthur went down with him on the PASIV. 

When they came back up, Mal and Cobb had identical smug smiles on their face, Eames was scratching the back of his neck as he stretched luxuriously, and Arthur couldn’t hide his amazement, couldn’t take his eyes off the other man.

“He can stay.” 

0

_Eames,_ Arthur thinks, wishing that the power of his brain was enough to bring the other man to his side. Sometimes – before – it might have been. Not any more, though. 

No, now Arthur would be surprised if Eames even remembers his name. Funny how those things work out, that he should be here alone at the end, thinking of the best thing he’d ever had and how badly he’d handled – well, everything. The thug got his blackberry, and his wallet, but there was always an emergency backup phone sewn into the lining of his jacket.

He wastes precious time and energy trying to get to it, and dials Eames’ number from memory. It rings twice, and goes straight to voice mail. Eames is screening his phone calls, and frankly, Arthur can’t blame him. 

“Eames,” comes the forger’s voice, and then a beep. 

Arthur sighs heavily. “Look, Eames, I know I’m – fuck – I know I’m the last… person you want to be hearing from right now. It’s just… Well, you won’t have to worry about it much longer. I just … wanted to say something. In case you… I don’t know, didn’t know. Eames,” he says, and there’s blood in his lungs and on his lips, and it feels like he’s choking on it, or maybe he’s choking on his pride. He should have said this sooner. “I fucked up, Eames.” 

He coughs, and it’s wet. Shit, the little punk really got him in the lung. There’s blood on his hand and the phone. He wipes it away. “I fucked up because I was scared, Eames. I wanted… to keep you safe. That was… all. I never…” And he coughs again, and hates himself because it hurts _so much_ , all of it – the knife wound, the words he’s trying to say, the love he feels overwhelming him even now. 

Even still. 

“I never … never stopped loving you, Eames. I just wanted you to know that.” 

He closes the phone, hanging up before he can let anything else slip. Everything’s sort of going dark around him, and he’s reduced to staring at the silent phone, the rain splashing off it in slow motion. It feels like he can see each individual rain drop, catalogue each splash pattern as they bounce and slide to the ground. 

0

He was drunk the first time they had sex. Actually, and he’d admitted it later, he was drunk because he was nervous and _planning_ to seduce the forger. It was liquid courage and a back-up plan all in one night of drinking, because the courage he needed to bare his feelings, and let the other man know how he felt. In case everything went south in the morning, he had an excuse ready-made: “ _Well, I was drunk. Technically, you took advantage of me. Let’s part as friends and forget this night ever happened._ ”

But it never went south. The morning after, Arthur was slightly hung-over and Eames just handed him some water and some aspirin, waited patiently for him to swallow everything, and then pounced him into the mattress and made him forget all about his headache. 

Arthur made sure to keep it professional on the jobs they worked together. He was pretty sure no one ever guessed, until they were told outright. More than a few people expressed disbelief, until the job ended and Eames pushed Arthur up against one of the desks and kissed him stupid. Arthur never knew if he actually was holding back on doing that, during the job, or if he did it purely for dramatic effect. 

In hindsight, there were a lot of things Arthur never knew about Eames. It was part of his charm.

0

After inception, they waited for a week with bated breath to see if it took. Ariadne texted every day - _have you heard anything? What’s Fischer doing now?_ \- and even Yusuf called once to see if they’d pulled it off.

When Eames turned on the news in their London cottage and let out a whoop, Arthur nearly dropped his coffee – mug and all – on the floor in his haste to get to the television. 

Fischer was behind a podium, looking carefree and smiling in ways they’d never seen before. “On behalf of the Fischer Morrow energy conglomerate, I would like to make a major announcement,” he was saying. “As of this moment, I am dissolving the company and stepping down from my position as CEO.” 

They never heard more of his obviously prepared speech, because that was the point where Eames had snatched him up in a bear hug, spinning him around their living room while they both laughed breathlessly. 

0

Frightened, and angry because of it, Arthur knew that he wasn’t handling the situation as best he could. While they were together, every blissful, stupidly joy-filled moment was a potential danger. Anyone could get them. Together or separate, they were a liability to each other. 

“Why are you even with me?” he snapped, pushing buttons. 

“What kind of a question is that?” And Eames, darling Eames, he rose to the bait without even realising the trap snapping closed around him. Arthur spared a moment to pity him, to apologise. 

“You’re obviously not happy,” Arthur lied. “You’re not seeing other people? You couldn’t give me the benefit of breaking it off first, could you?” 

And Eames’ mouth worked silently as he tried to process what Arthur was saying to him. “You know I’d never – what the hell, Arthur!” Angry now, just like Arthur wanted. When Eames left, it would be for his own safety. And he’d get to feel superior, because it would be his decision. It didn’t matter that Arthur was manipulating him into it.

He should have felt smug, happy. Eames was the ultimate manipulator, the puppetmaster who pulled everyone else’s strings while remaining aloof and apart. It was a testament to how far in him Arthur was – how deeply beneath his skin, how much he meant – that he just let Arthur wind him up this way. If he was reacting logically instead of emotionally, he’d have seen through it from a mile away.

Logic had little to do with this situation. It was a viscerally emotional reaction that had prompted Arthur to finally realise that they were dangerous to each other. That as long as Arthur was emotionally attached, Eames could be hurt and it would hurt him. He didn’t care if he was hurt, though he knew it would hurt Eames in turn. They were too deep, too involved. 

It was better for them both that they end it, before it got much worse. Eames would bounce back, Arthur knew, and if _he_ didn’t…

Well, Eames was his only. It didn’t matter if Arthur never bounced back, because Eames would be safe, and that was the important part. 

“I thought you trusted me, Arthur!” 

Angry, hurt, it was all Arthur could do not to drop to his knees, beg forgiveness. Swear that yes, he trusted Eames beyond all reason. He was engineering the fight in order to keep Eames safe. Plead with him not to be too angry. But he didn’t. He kept his face icy cold, redirecting the icy rage into a mask. “How can I?” 

The words tore at his heart, lodged in his throat, almost refused to be said. There were some things that could never be taken back, and he knew it. This was one of them.

Eames drew away as if Arthur had burned him. “If that’s how you feel, then maybe it’s better if we end this.” 

Behind his frozen façade, Arthur felt his heart shattering into pieces. He kept his spine stiff by sheer force of will, waited until Eames slammed the door behind him. Only when he heard the car starting up and roaring away did he allow himself to collapse, and he fell to pieces right there on the kitchen floor. He didn’t move for nearly a full day, ignoring his body’s demands for the bathroom, for food, for water. He briefly considered hooking himself up to the PASIV, setting all the vials to be used with no timer and no kick. It was rumoured to be a pretty peaceful way of committing suicide, and in the dream he’d be able to have his life with Eames. He could apologise, they could have fabulous make-up sex, Eames would forgive him. 

Even if he didn’t deserve forgiveness. 

He’d intentionally torn the best part of his life into pieces and stomped on them, because he was afraid. 

There was no way he deserved forgiveness. 

0

One of the things he liked best about their country flat in rural France was, in fact, its stereotypical country charm. There was a field of flowers that bloomed riotously through the spring and summer, the trees were far enough away that even the worst of thunderstorms never threatened to bring any of them down on the house, and in the cool mornings, he’d wake Eames up by bringing him tea, and then he’d settle down on the porch and sip his coffee. 

The sunlight filtered in through the trees, playing patterns across the house and his rose garden, the birds chirped and sang. Sometimes deer could be seen at the far end of the field, moving cautiously between the trees. Their power lines were all underground, and they were very far from the main roads. There was nothing out there but them, the house, and nature.

It was his getaway, his retreat, the place he felt safest and – when he was honest with himself – happiest. There was a time, once, closer to the beginning, that he thought often about staying there forever with Eames. They had a PASIV of their own; if the need to dream became too much, they could go under right where they were. They had enough money to never _need_ to work again. 

He could see it, sometimes, despite Eames’ admonitions that he had no imagination. He could see himself growing old in that house, inviting Phillipa out to have her wedding out there in the field. Letting Cobb’s kids fill the silences with their kids, when they wanted to visit; inviting Ariadne and her beau out to see the softer side of France. 

Sitting there on the porch beside Eames on the last days of their lives before slipping peacefully away in their sleep. It was… idyllic. 

It was perfect.

0

The rain is falling harder now, still in slow motion. Arthur can feel the blood frothing on his lips, bubbling out with every breath. He never realised it took so long to die in real life. He kept seeing Eames the way he was, smiling at something Arthur had said, blinking blearily over his morning cup of tea. Working. Forging. Painting. Eames.

_Eames._

He heard a siren in the distance, could almost put words to it. Then he realised it wasn’t a siren, it was a ringtone. His phone was ringing. It sounded like it was coming through water. 

With immense effort, he flipped the phone open, not bothering to check the caller ID. “Ar…thur,” he breathed, coughing to clear his throat. It didn’t help.

“Arthur, what the fuck was that message?” 

Ah, an earful of irritated Brit. Just what he needed. 

“Arthur? What the fuck! Where are you?” 

_Dying,_ Arthur thinks. _Dying without you because I was a fucking coward._ He thinks maybe he actually said the words, wonders if maybe Eames has hung up on him. It’s silent on the other end for a long moment. 

“Stay where you are. I’m going to come get you, and we’re going to talk about this.” 

“Eames.” 

“What?”

“I’m… I am sorry,” he says. _It’s too late. We’re broken and no one’s going to fix us. Fix me. It’s too late._ “But… I’m already gone. There’s no time. Hey…” 

“Arthur,” and Eames’ voice is tight, strained. Arthur wonders briefly if he’s crying. “What?”

“It’s too late. Just… be happy.” 

_Be happy in ways I never even imagined you could be. Shine, motherfucker. Light up someone else’s life the way you lit up mine._

He pushes the phone closed, has nothing else to say and not enough energy to get the words out even if he did. It rings again immediately, that damn Edith Piaf song Cobb was so fond of. That Mal was so fond of, really. He thinks about Mal and jumping to wake up. 

He wonders if Eames will be there when he opens his eyes again. But he can’t even muster up the energy to close his eyes, can barely even feel the raindrops stabbing into his corneas. 

It’s the last thing he sees, the rain falling like knives, shining like little fires falling from the sky. He hears himself stop breathing before he realises he’s not, and then –


End file.
